Accidental Rudeness
by jack63kids
Summary: Happy Birthday to a very special friend. Hope you're having a great day, MLC. Hugs, Jx Warning: Story contains 'Incidental Case' - what it's about is not important, clues make very little sense, & will remain a one-shot... What is important is the feature of Sherlock that it showcases - his lack of social awareness and an attempt to 'define' one aspect of his personality. ;-D


**_To MLC who likes to define the undefinable... Happy Birthday, lovely._**

* * *

**Vernon Dursley**: I don't mean to be rude...  
**Albus Dumbledore**: ...yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often. Best to say nothing at all, my dear man.

* * *

There is an etymological relationship between _erudite_ and _rude_; a relationship that Sherlock Holmes often tested to its limits. He was blissfully unaware that any such relationship was taking place and so mated erudite with rudeness with a certain trademark lack of cognizance.

The door opened to the 6th potential client that afternoon and a pasty-faced youth poked his head around the door. "_Boring_!" Sherlock pronounced and the door closed again with the click of finality.

Moments later there was a rhythmic knock that reminded John of Dr Who, but he couldn't put his finger on why... four staccato beats that he expected to be repeated for some reason. Then silence. "_Come_!" Sherlock said loudly without looking up, but John could see the sparkle in his eye. Now how could Sherlock tell that an interesting case was coming just from a knock? John realised that he would never fully understand how his flatmate could do what he did and he smiled in the surety of that fact. Life would never be dull again as long as Sherlock was around.

Sherlock sat up straighter, his eyes sparkling as the client strode into the room, not waiting for introductions or _the nod_ before launching into the most farfetched and ludicrous case that John could imagine. He smirked in his colleagues direction, to find Sherlock on the edge of his seat, a look of intense concentration on his face and his fingers interlinked so hard that his knuckles had turned white. His features were animated in a way that John had not seen for the longest time and he was at a complete loss to see why. Every word the man had spoken so far was beyond a joke.

What on earth had a pottery class, hair pins and a Chinese calligraphy set got to do with the architectural plans for a new station in Suffolk? It was beyond John, but Sherlock was asking questions, making observations as if this all made perfect sense.

Twenty minutes later Sherlock was pumping the hand of the stout gentleman who'd provided him with all the information he needed for the time being, apparently, and they were off.

As they rushed out, John came to a comic halt at the top of the stairs in front of a round dozen potential clients who sat, a step apiece, waiting for an audience with the Great Detective. "Sherlock, just how many appointments did you make?" John asked shocked.

"Twenty-two," Sherlock replied. "I see that three haven't shown - how inconsiderate!" And swept passed them all, causing them to huddle closer to their side of the stairs as he barged past, ignoring their pleading looks and irritated expressions, one elderly gentleman muttering something about 'waiting rooms'.

"Sorry - sorry - _really_ sorry - _oh_, are you alright there?" John's passage was slower and more agonised.

"John! _Come on_ - time is pressing down on us!" And John made his final apologies and sped off into the dismal evening drizzle.

The case was easily solved after a couple of visits: the first to a Chinese restaurant where Sherlock carefully examined the door, took some notes on his phone and then advised John never to lunch there, but that an evening meal would be safe enough.

"What's that got to do with the case, Sherlock?" John asked puzzled.

Sherlock didn't break stride, addressing his remarks over his shoulder. "Oh, nothing, nothing at all - but you don't want to be eating substandard Chinese now, do you, John."

Sherlock learnt all he needed, apparently, from the diminutive lunch chef, a dirty and obsequious fellow, who John did not need to be warned was a unsanitary cook. And then on to their second assignation...

... a municipal swimming-pool. There seemed to be a lot of municipal swimming-pools in their lives, John reflected. Or at least one - repeated. This one, thankfully, was open and full of life. Sherlock talked to the lifeguard on duty. John couldn't hear what was being said, but saw the tanned and muscular young man point towards the changing rooms and shake his head to a further question. Sherlock looked gleeful. John hoped that he wouldn't start rubbing his hands together and dancing about while laughing manically - it scared people, and there were a lot of children around. He grabbed Sherlock's arm to skirt around any public exhibitionism that might be taken as signs of mental illness, and they walked relatively normally towards the changing area.

Sherlock acquired the last pieces of evidence he needed, not from another interview, but from the empty locker number 148. He bagged several hairs, bottled up some blueish sticky liquid that John hoped was a hair product, some small pieces of hardening clay and took dark, inky finger-prints from around the lock. The Consultant Detective seemed satisfied and they left. John knew better than to ask any questions - Sherlock had been known to leave him stranded at crime scenes when he wanted to talk about a case.

* * *

That evening they went out for a celebratory meal; Sherlock promising to explain the finer points of the case 'they' had just solved. John was currently too confused to be able to name it... let alone understand what crime had been committed, so nothing had gone into his blog as yet.

They'd been given a prime seat in the window, with views across the river; apparently the maitre d' owed Sherlock for getting his brother out of gaol. It was perfect, or would have been on an actual date - one with a woman. As it was, John was uncomfortable reminded of when he sat at a table with Sherlock on their case and was given a romantic candle.

Sherlock showed no awareness of any uncomfortableness on his part and perused the menu with relish. He was ready to order in moments and called the waiter over before John had been able to open his own menu the right way up.

"I've not chosen yet," he complained.

The waiter looked scathingly at the pair. "Shall I come back when _Sirs_ have chosen-"

"-No, no, he'll have the same as me," Sherlock said, ordering three of the most expensive and rich courses that were on the expensive and rich menu.

John opened his mouth to protest once more, but the waiter was gone in a trice and Sherlock's attention was obviously elsewhere. If you can imagine a cat listening for a mouse in long grass, you are a long way towards imagining what Sherlock looked like. He was stock still, a slight pained expression on his face, with the occasional twitch of his head, as if getting a direction on an unwelcome noise.

Sherlock strode purposefully across the crowding dining-room and stopped at another table. He fixed the diners with a beady look and started, "These days, in this country at least, there is a abundance of comestibles." He looked around at the startled faces but was not put off his task. "There is no rationing, plenty of choice for those who do not see the joys of a particular morsel of food." He stabbed a Brussel sprout on the boy's plate, and four mouths dropped open.  
"No need for bullying." He stuffed the fork-load into his mouth, chewed for a moment before continuing, "No requirement for Brussel sprouts on anyone's diet sheet." He swallowed and repeated the exercise with two more of the offending items.

"He's hardly starving," he observed. Sherlock downed another sprout.

The little girl's expression did not change as she pushed her plate towards Sherlock, her eyes raptly fixed on his face. "Thank you," he said, "Four is quite sufficient I find... If you find an element in your meal that you do not wish to put in your mouth, then push it to the side of plate. That is what I do when find something objectionable ... it is quite within the proper boundaries of etiquette." Sherlock picked up a serviette from the table and dabbed at his mouth a couple of times. "Good evening to you!" he said, obviously addressing his remarks to the two young children.

"_Sherlock_!" John admonished.

"Bit not good?" Sherlock asked.

"_Lot_ not good," came the answer.

"_Good_!" Sherlock said, looking smug. "I'd not say the same of Brussel sprouts! Rather spoils the pallet for one's own Dover sole. At least we won't be hearing any more savage parenting techniques tonight." John glanced over at the family. The girl was carefully lining up her vegetables along one edge of her plate. For a moment it looked as if her red-faced father was about to lean forward to say something, then his wife grabbed his forearm and was hissing something in his ear. The deposed patriarch glanced in their direction and, catching John's eye, gave a brief nod of the head and went back to his meal.

John hid his smirk in his serviette. Dinner with Sherlock was always eventful in the most unpredictable ways.

John was never sure what to make of blunt Sherlock's way of handling the world, but he had to hand it to his friend for the way he dealt with unfairness in others. Sherlock did not tolerate bullying, prejudice or snobbery. He was the same with a street urchin as he was with princes - dealing with each depending on how they dealt with others. He was, John felt, the epitome of erudite.

* * *

_**er·u·dite (ry-dt, r-) adj.**_  
_**eru·ditely adv.**_  
_**eru·diteness n.**_

_Characterized by erudition; learned. See Synonyms at learned._  
_[Middle English erudit, from Latin rudtus, past participle of rudre, to instruct : -, ex-, ex- + rudis, rough, untaught; see rude.]_  
_Word History: One might like to be erudite but hesitate to be rude. This preference is supported by the etymological relationship between erudite and rude. Erudite comes from the Latin adjective rudtus, "well-instructed, learned," from the past participle of the verb rudre, "to educate, train." The verb is in turn formed from the prefix ex-, "out, out of," and the adjective rudis, "untaught, untrained," the source of our word rude. The English word erudite is first recorded in a work possibly written before 1425 with the senses "instructed, learned." Erudite meaning "learned" is supposed to have become rare except in sarcastic use during the latter part of the 19th century, but the word now seems to have been restored to favor._


End file.
